Ride With Me by Lucy Keating

Author:Lucy Keating
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2022-04-19T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

I SPEND EVERY FREE MOMENT DURING THE NEXT WEEK hunched over my phone and computer, studying Ava Adams’s Instagram—her photos, and all the projects she has worked on through the years. Her natural-wood finishes and reclaimed terra-cotta planters and imported textiles. I claw my way through our dusty, dangerous attic trying to find original floor plans for my mom’s studio, then just end up measuring it myself and creating detailed before-and-after renderings of the interior and exterior. I’m obviously not a contractor, nor do I have the funds to hire one, so I’ll have to stick to the basics. I’ll keep the cubbyholes, the general layout, but I’ll sand and paint. I’d also like to figure out how to make a sink using rain or hose water, nothing too crazy, just so she can rinse off her brushes without walking to and from the house.

I go to Jacobson’s Hardware to pick up some extra paint samples that Bill saved for me, relieved at how small the square footage of the building is. For the interior I choose a crisp, warm white, to open the space up, and for the exterior, a dark slate color, which seems to be all the rage on the west coast right now, a way to turn something historic into something more modern and stylish.

“It’s just so . . . dark,” my mom observes, when I show her the renderings at the dinner table.

“That’s the whole point,” I say. “I’m making it contemporary! Chic. Right now, it’s kind of a mess.”

My mom fidgets. “Well, what if I like it being kind of a mess?”

I shake my head impatiently. “Mom, this is what people like Ava Adams are into. Eliminating some of the craziness and streamlining things. I promise, you are going to love it.”

My mom sighs. “I’m all for it, but maybe you could just try something other than the slate. Like a dusty sage?”

I bite my lip. It is her house, after all. “Okay. I promise I won’t go too far.”

Reggie went home early with a stomachache on Thursday, so Andre and I pick up two extra riders for the route home, which I am grateful for. One of them I’ve never seen before, and one is a girl I only vaguely recognize. I think maybe we had math together sophomore year. Shara. She approaches the car carrying a heavy guitar case. Andre hops out and, ever the gentleman, helps her put it in the giant Prius trunk, which opens like the door to an alien spaceship.

“Thanks,” Shara says sweetly as she climbs into the back. Her friend climbs in with her.

“Ashley and Shara, right?” Andre says. He looks at Shara. “We had English together last year.”

Does he really know everyone? I wonder.

“That’s right.” Shara smiles. “Mr. McDougal.”

“That dude has style,” Andre says, and I have no idea what he’s talking about, but Shara lets out a high-pitched, shy giggle.

“He totally does!”

Andre whips his head back around, scrunching up his eyebrows. “Hey, by the way, I didn’t know you played guitar.

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